A dying man's musings
by Bella
Summary: It's Christmas 1919. Mr. Swire has a letter to write and to remember one very much beloved, dead daughter. This is the fourth instalment of my little "Dowton series.", if you want to take it like this.


_A dying man's musing_

_Summary: It's Christmas 1919. Mr. Swire has a letter to write and to remember one very much beloved, dead daughter._

_Disclaimer: Downton Abbey and its characters and story plots belong to Julian Fellows and ITV. This is just for fun and no intended._

_On a personal note: Please bear in mind that English is not my native language and that I've got no beta to smooth out the rough edges. All non-flaming critism is welcome and I'm open for discussion. _

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I'm a dying man. My pen slides slowly over the paper. This will be my last letter and I must remember to backdate it to April. I will it to him, to the man who broke my little girl's heart with a tender smile.

...

When Lavinia came home that evening, rather late I have to say, she came home as a woman. Despite having had her first season that summer she still had been more a young girl playing grownup than a woman. That night, however, she came back as a young woman – a woman with stars in her eyes so bright they eclipsed the full moon shining into my study, where I had sat over classified files waiting up for her to be brought home by her friend and their chaperone, Mrs. Goodman.

I can still hear her breathless voice, her words tumbling out of her mouth, so fast they were close to incoherency. From what I could finally gather I learnt she had met a young man – a lieutenant on leave - at the party. He went by the name of Matthew Crawley and according to her the most handsome and wonderful man there ever was.

I didn't take her serious, I have to admit. I smiled and was transported back to the time I had wooed her mother, God bless her soul. Looking at her, talking so animatedly by the fire, so full of innocence and an unguarded heart… how could I begrudge her the moon and the stars?

One cannot imagine my surprise on the very next day, when Hawkins came after breakfast bringing the calling card of Lieutenant Crawley asking to see me. That rather raised my curiosity. I wouldn't have ever expected to hear again from Prince Charming-of-one-Evening. I asked Hawkins to let him in and rose to meet him, grateful Lavinia was upstairs writing letters to her many friends, probably full of the brave prince in uniform.

When he entered I almost dismissed him at first sight. A man too good-looking for his own good. Who knew how many hearts he had broken so far? After almost two years in the trenches these soldiers played a hard and fast game and knew how to make every minute count by sheer necessity. He had come to seek my permission to take Lavinia and her chaperone to National Art Gallery and maybe later have a bit of a luncheon. I don't know what it was that changed my reserve against him, maybe it was his unexpected shy smile or how his eyes lit up when he said Lavinia's name. Perhaps it was the shadows in his eyes that passed through sometimes. I wasn't an ignoramus. I had far-reaching connections. I KNEW what the front really was like – a butcher's feast without honour or grace. I also knew war wouldn't be over by Christmas this year either. Maybe it was simply a fit of compassion. If Lavinia could contribute to the well-being of one soldier in this small way by allowing him to take her out for a nice day, well, I saw no harm in it. They wouldn't see each other again after his leave anyway I assumed. Whatever it really was that swayed my decision, I granted the permission and called for Hawkins to fetch Lavinia and to get me my own coat. I would accompany them personally.

My, I think I never heard my daughter running down the steps so fast in her life. For a second I feared she'd take a tumble down in her haste to meet her lieutenant. We shared a smile. Mine was amused, his endearingly abashed while the tips of his ears showed a lovely shade of red. No, whatever appearances were like this young man was not an experienced seducer. My lips twitched when she must have paused at the library door for a moment or two to regulate her breath and compose herself, because when she entered she was grace personified. Only her blush gave her game entirely away. Glancing over to Lieutenant Crawley I saw him smile brightly, looking almost besotted, stepping up to her and take her hand to hold onto it for a moment too long.

I followed them at a slow pace. I was content to just watch them, talking animatedly and constantly smiling. She hung at his arm, he was always mindful to lead her carefully and together they explored the old masters and the new style- cubism they called it. It warmed this old man's heart. By lunchtime I had made up my mind to make enquiries about this man from Manchester. Over luncheon I learnt he was a solicitor working for a reputable firm in Ripon, Yorkshire. He had a mother living in a larger village called Downton, his father had been a doctor, she was a nurse. He had an aunt and several cousins on his mother's side and was a distant relative to the Earl of Grantham on his father's side.

Over the space of the next few days, we saw Lieutenant Crawley regularly and he rose in my regard. Looking at the children, I saw genuine affection on both sides. Matthew was an honest and decent, respectful, highly intelligent young man. And my Lavinia was head over heels in love. When his time to leave for France had come, I let them say goodbye privately. I saw him asking something and she nodded radiantly before they shared a chaste kiss right on a platform at King's Cross among the seemingly unending wave of brown uniforms branding against the train to Southampton. My daughter was engaged to be married to my utter astonishment. I had thought he'd ask no more of her than to write to him.

The day after I got a letter from him, the writing shaky. He must have written it still on the train and asked for Lavinia's hand in marriage. How could I not give them my blessing, when I looked at my daughter walking on air? Never had she been so happy, so vibrant and full of life. How was I to know that she would never be again so?

Matthew's long letters came as frequently as possible. He never wrote much about the front, but he and Lavinia talked about all else under the sun. My enquiries turned up nothing unsavoury: he was held in high regards professionally in Ripon and Manchester, was well liked by the men under his command, of whom he took care as best as he could and tried not to be a hero, yet managed to do his duty admirably. If the war didn't take him, he was destined to come up far in the army while it lasted. Naturally, he had gone to Paris with comrades, had had some measure of fun over there. And knowing about life in the trenches how could I condemn him for seeking some small pleasures in his life, even if it was only an evening of drinking to forget or found for an hour or two in the arms of some nameless women to purge his demons? Yet, from the moment he had met Lavinia all activities of that nature stopped immediately. No more "Moulin Rouge" for Lieutenant Crawley and all weekend passes were saved to accumulate for small respites in England.

And he was the heir to the Earl of Grantham I found out, when I looked up the aristocrat in Burke's on a whim, which he had never cared to mention before. Why hadn't he? Frowning I composed a letter to him, asking precisely this rather important question, which he answered with disarming honesty. He wanted to be loved for himself, Matthew Crawley, simple solicitor from Manchester and not because of his prospects. His cousin Robert was a man of good health in his late forties. He might as well live for another 30, 40 years. He, Matthew, might be an old man himself, before he'd inherit the title, the Grantham fortune and the estate. Between the lines I thought to read that too many young ladies had apparently flung themselves at him or had been flung by their ambitious mothers during his two seasons as heir in London to let him believe he had any worth beyond said prospects. I felt reassured and let the matter rest.

The downside of this engagement was that Matthew was fighting in France as a mere Lieutenant right in the very thick of things and the Huns liked nothing so well as to shoot enemy officers with the hope to cripple the allied forces as heavily as it did within their own strict hierarchy of command.

It might be cynical but the way I saw it then was, if Matthew survived the war and made true to Lavinia she would be elevated to a position beyond all expectations. If he didn't, then at least he had made her happy for a while. Besides, my health started flailing. I had not as much time as I wanted to settle her well.

A couple of weeks later a letter arrived from his mother, inviting my daughter to spend a few days with her to get to know each other when Matthew came home on his next leave. His Lordship would host a concert to raise funds and we were cordially invited. I had so hoped to meet Matthew's other side of the family: Lord and Lady Grantham, Cousin Violet the Dowager Countess, their three high spirited daughters and the incomparable butler Carson, more noble and dignified than his master. Unfortunately a bad summer cold chained me to the house, but I let the children go in Lavinia's car. A gift and a folly, I admit, since Lavinia deemed it unfeminine to drive and our chauffeur had been called and a replacement hadn't been in sight for months, naturally.

Lavinia came back after a couple of weeks, quieter and more introspective. Something wore heavily on her chest. And one evening she broke down under the overwhelming pressure, weeping bitterly. While they were all very nice to her, she couldn't help feeling utterly intimidated by the family, by the grandeur of the house, "a grand castle, father, not just a stately house", by Carson, by everyone, even by the proud and self-confident house maids. She felt weighted and found too light. How could she ever hope to take up the mantle and be a countess? She didn't fit in. Sybil, the closest in age to her and wanting to be a nurse was too passionate about her chosen occupation, about politics, women's rights, really any number of things. Edith wore trousers, drove these huge harvesting machines and worked on the farms, incomprehensibly proud to be on equal footing with men!, Lady Grantham treated her more like a passing guest than the fiancée of the heir of Grantham, the dowager countess simply terrified her out of her wits, her own future mother-in-law found her too ...young, Lavinia supposed… and then there was the Lady Mary Matthew had spoken so highly of in his letter about his family. She was the only true friend she had there, but even she couldn't make her forget how insignificant she was and especially in comparison to Lady Mary's regal beauty. Lady Mary commanded so very easily every room she entered and everyone around her. Lady Mary talked of fashion, of the season, of places, she, Lavinia, had never seen, of people she had never met. Lady Mary was the big sister in whose shoes she could never hope to walk and she could only hang on to her apron, admire her and try to model herself after her. Lady Mary was a true countess: graceful, gracious, elegant …utterly sophisticated… and she was only plain Miss Lavinia Swire from Kensington. My heart broke for my girl.

I became worried about the Crawleys listening to Lavinia's unreflected impressions. Did they think her but a temporary stand-in for the true future countess to arrive, a simple folly of the heir to indulge and to be dismissed as soon as the war was over? My thoughts began to focus on Lady Mary Crawley, her only friend and a ( or the?) true countess... an eldest daughter of apparently unparallel beauty and grace, still unmarried at the age of 24. Why? It didn't fit. Again I made careful enquiries of greater depth. And what I found this time didn't rest my heart at all. Matthew Crawley wasn't as squeaky clean as previously thought, almost engaged to be married to this alluring cousin. They fell out and he was by Christmas '14 in the trenches. Had he signed up during the first weeks of unbridled patriotism because of a thirst of excitement and had been anxious to join before everything was supposedly over by said Christmas? Or had he been running away from an unhappy love? Mary Crawley ... for a lady she surely was not. No, for her kind of woman other terms were coined. I disliked she was so close to Lavinia. What did this woman hope to gain? Those of her kind weren't ever to be trusted! What if she dragged my sweet innocent girl down with her into shame? What if Matthew fell? Lavinia was engaged to be married to him. What if her virtue would be questioned just by association with that woman under the circumstances? Many nights I wrestled with my conscience, what was I to do? Sense and precaution dictated I terminated the engagement at once. Love and hope dictated I let Lavinia love and dream. Eventually I decided to keep my say. Lavinia was unhappy enough and she clung to her fairy tale image of Lady Mary as her sole friend at Downton Abbey.

When I got the telegram of Matthew gone missing, to be honest, I didn't know what I felt. I concealed it from Lavinia. She didn't need to know, not as long as his death wasn't confirmed. Days later he turned up right as rain. I thanked God and relaxed a bit. But later I heard the story through my informants in the village. They'd made quite the spectacle out of themselves and not one in attendance could earnestly doubt that Mary Crawley was very much in love with her cousin. A certain farewell at Downton Station in the very early morning hours, well before any respectable lady rose came to mind. A kiss good-bye not quite as innocent as previously thought? Was Matthew not quite as settled in his feelings towards Lavinia as one might wish, as my daughter deserved?

Springtime in the last year of the war the unthinkable finally happened. Matthew had been severely wounded and Lavinia rushed up to Downton. Spinal damage, permanently. She returned a broken-hearted woman. Matthew had released her. As much as I wanted to shake the man and hurt him for hurting my daughter so very much, I saw his reasoning. No fulfilled married life, no children, only nursing for the rest of her life. Lavinia deserved more from life than that. Naturally, she couldn't see it yet. But when no letters came from Downton, no calls… she began to understand. This was final. And I came to respect Matthew once more. Whatever his feelings for his cousin were, for Lavinia he had done the only decent thing left to do for a man in his position and he had my full-hearted approval. Slowly, so very slowly she picked up her life again. Her tears dried and the day she smiled again was one of my happiest days in my life.

Until the early autumn day the fateful letter from Lady Grantham arrived, inviting her back to Downton Abbey. Matthew looked better and had taken to life again, albeit a very different one than he had expected to lead. He learnt to cope. And she wrote, he missed her and wanted her to come back, but didn't think himself worthy of her forgiveness. Lavinia tore through the house, frantic, trying to pack and unpack and pack again. Carlisle rang. He'd pick up Lavinia, by dinnertime they could be in Downton. Apparently Lady Grantham had summoned him as well. And contrary to my darling Lavinia his hard glint told he knew exactly why. Mary and Matthew, Matthew and Mary. A new chapter had been added to the old, unfinished story. I was so angry with her scheming to sacrifice my daughter for her daughter, I almost forbade Lavinia to go. But an old man's heart is a fool's heart. In the end, I let her go against better judgement.

Her next letter was less exuberant. Apparently Matthew hadn't been very pleased to see her again. But my daughter held fast. This time she didn't let herself cast away. She would fight for him. But did she know what she was fighting against? I knew. I learnt Matthew had spent countless hours each day during the summer in the care of his cousin. She had been his sole nurse, his care-giver and confidante. And if Matthew Crawley was seen smiling and laughing merrily, it was because of her. She had nursed him back to life, filled the empty shell of the man he had become. Had this been her game all the time? Her back-up plan for when Carlisle eventually realised that she was a liability rather than an asset on his way to the top? Making her indispensible first to the future Lady Grantham and then to the future Earl to secure some small position of safety or to rule over Downton by proxy as the unofficial but true mistress?

A dozen times I wanted to come up and take Lavinia away from Downton. I, too, had a right to grand-children. My daughter, too, had a right to have a happy life. In the end Lavinia's happy letters and phone calls tipped the scale. She and Matthew became close again and Mary Crawley got cast aside or let herself fade back into the background. It wasn't quite clear. And it didn't interest me too much what became of that woman as long as she stayed away from my daughter and her intended.

And then a most miraculous phone call came in January. Her voice came as close to hysterical as the night she cried her heart out for Matthew, for the life they'd never have. Matthew had stood up from his wheel-chair, a miracle of biblical proportion. I was so very glad for my girl. There was the chance for a happy life after all. My hopes soared. Matthew said this, Matthew did that. And one day a letter came, asking me for the hand of my daughter in marriage once more. Yet I hesitated several days. I knew Matthew loved Lavinia. But he also had feelings for his cousin Mary, the femme fatale in this triangle. Would he be able to commit fully to my girl? Would he be able to make Lavinia truly happy? I just didn't know anymore. In the end I came up to Downton. His Lordship was graciously enough but there was no question of who was the driving force behind the reconciliation between Lavinia and Matthew. Matthew stood between Mary Crawley and Carlisle. At this point of time, I think, Lady Grantham would have taken any girl and pushed her into Matthew's path, just to keep him out of Mary's hair and get her daughter finally settled with the rich and powerful Sir Richard Carlisle to secure a position in society for her NOW. Lavinia truly didn't count in her grand scheme of things. In the end I gave my permission with a heavy heart and a wedding date was set for April, because by then Matthew would be able to walk down the aisle under his own steam according to his doctor. That night I saw my girl alive for the last time.

I was about to leave the house to go up to Downton for the wedding, when the phone call came. The Spanish flu had taken my beautiful, darling girl. Matthew was beside himself with grief.

At least this is what I used to think back then until a couple of days later her letter arrived. She had written it on her deathbed. And she disclosed the full truth of what had come to pass. She had caught them dancing rather intimately. She had heard that Matthew would love nothing more than to throw her over and be with that woman. She had caught them kissing three days before her wedding! And the worst thing was, Matthew was adamant not to see reason, not to let her go out of a completely misguided sense of honour and mostly selfish pride and hurt. If he couldn't have Mary, then he would content himself with his second best choice – Lavinia. He didn't want to be left with nothing on the losing side with Mary choosing another man and rejecting him a second time. My girl had her pride, too, and knew and finally accepted that she would never be an acceptable countess, they wouldn't be happy, not when Matthew had so dramatically confirmed her long held suspicions about his feelings for his cousin, which had blossomed reading his one letter about the Crawleys before her first visit. His words describing her had been too carefully chosen compared to the jaunty, borderline disrespectful yet affectionate chatter about the rest of the family.

...

Now I know better. It wasn't grief that wrecked him. It was guilt and shame. I do not doubt for a second he loved Lavinia dearly despite all, but I also know Mary Crawley owns his very soul. As much as I'd like to I can't condemn him. Many, many times I could have ended things for Lavinia. Many, many times I could have shared my findings and suspicions with her and caution her. Many, many times I could have written to Matthew and ask him to release her long before his injury. Many, many times I even could have written to Mary Crawley and begged of her to go away and let my girl have her chance at happiness.

But I did not. We did not save my girl, because I loved her too much while Matthew loved her not enough. We're equally to blame for not treating her the way she deserved. I will take my share of it and my regrets to the grave. And if God arranges it so to make him my heir, then I have to make my peace with him, too, for the sake of Lavinia's deep love for Matthew. She would want that. God can't have spared him during four years of war and let him walk again just to have him waste his life in misery as he does now. He's got a long life ahead of him. May he find love and happiness.

In the end that is all that counts. Lavinia's love and happiness, precisely. And her happiness was and will be the most important thing until I draw my last breath. It won't be long now. Not very long at all. It's time to call him to London. I don't want to go alone.

Ende


End file.
